fic: the moon the only face that I see
And yuletide reveals are live! This year was my first time doing yuletide, and I wrote one story: the moon the only face that I see, for 
cherith. I had never written Little Red Riding Hood fic before, so it was a bit tricky to get started on, but ityellsback was a super helpful beta who cheered me on and offered lots of good suggestions, so after a couple of false starts, I managed to finish something I was happy with. And now, to the story! You can click the link above if you'd rather read on the AO3, or here goes:
Title: the moon the only face that I see
Fandom: Little Red Riding Hood
Characters: the wolf, the girl
Word Count: 1441
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, mild gore
Summary: Wolves have stories, too. Like this one: There is the wolf with the large pointed ears and the great round eyes and the long fangs that did not make her look fearsome at all but rather too small for her own teeth.
A/N: Thanks again to ityellsback for betaing. Title from Josh Ritter's "Wolves." This was my source on wolf color vision, which admittedly is the Psychology Today Blog (cringes). Read more about the mythology of the moon rabbit here.
Wolves have stories, too. Not so different from ours. We say that they learned from us; they, that we borrowed from them. As is often the case, the truth probably lies somewhere in between.
If you wished it, if you could find wolves who would not flee from you or bare their teeth at your presence, they could tell you hundreds, perhaps thousands of stories. Stories that might not be entirely unfamiliar, although the morals of wolves can be strange mirrors. The wolf whose pelt was as white as the first snowfall, even in summer. When her pack cast her out for breaking their cover, she took refuge among the seven fox brothers. Or the wolf ensnared by a huntsman who refused her an honorable death and made her live like a common dog in the smoke of his hut. In time, she grew to love him with the devotion that only a beast can give, and, humbled, he loosed the rope and set her free. Or there is the wolf who fled through cruel briars and, pricked through by the thorns, lay down beneath the trees. And though he should have died, he only slept, bedded down in the moss and covered by the leaves.
Perhaps you already know how these stories end.
But none of these are the story you asked for. Let us hear that one.
There is the wolf with the large pointed ears and the great round eyes and the long fangs that did not make her look fearsome at all but rather too small for her own teeth. She had been the runt of her litter, and only by being so pitiable and insistent had she survived her first winter at all. She had learned to keep her attention sharp, to look longingly at things, and if they were not given, well, she was better at taking than she appeared.
And there is the night she woke with the words of her alphas echoing in her head: Never stray from the pack. Like every night, her favorite littermate, the only one with whom she would share the best bits of fat and bone, nudged her with her nose and said Come, we hunt. Like every night, she followed the pack with her paws, but her eyes wandered as they trailed the deer over their familiar hunting grounds.
Unlike every other night, she began to let her body drift in the direction of her eyes. It started with walking just a little farther from her sister. This became lingering at the fringes of the group. Then weaving the opposite way from the others whenever she passed around a tree. Soon she was so far away that she couldn’t make out the shapes of any of the wolves, just the nameless blur of the pack. Then even this was gone, before she could hesitate or think of running back. She was alone. She had strayed.
The wolf stopped in a sparse patch of trees, her breath steaming in the cold air. Now that she was on her own, she was not sure what she meant to do. She had lived her whole life within sight of at least one of her siblings, or her alphas, or her mother. Gazing up at the full moon, she searched for the shadowy outline of the rabbit said to live there. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but for the first time the rabbit seemed to be not prey taunting her from a distance but a strange kind of company. She took its presence as an encouragement and padded onward.
As the wolf pressed deeper into the forest, she could not help thinking of the stories she was told as a pup. How the darkest parts of the woods crawl with hunters, bearing axes with a cruel gleam and guns that spit ash and iron and smoke. How the cabins in the clearings belong to those who conjure fire and brew kettles of poison. The wolf shivered, and then shook off the fear. Then she stopped short, for she found herself at the edge of a long, narrow clearing that could only be the fabled path. In the very center of it, looking directly at her, stood a girl.
The wolf flinched, but she did not creep back into the shadows. She pulled herself up to her greatest height and bristled her fur slightly. Raising her enormous ears, she turned the full strength of her gaze on the girl and stared back. She did not growl, but she licked her lips so that the girl could see her long teeth.
The girl, too, stood her ground. She wore a long cloak as dark as the space between the trees, with a hood that cast her face in shadow. All the wolf could see were her hands, snug in her gloves; her feet, laced tight in leather boots; and her eyes, glittering in the moonlight. After a moment, the girl tilted her head, and the wolf saw her lips curve upward. She set down something the wolf had not realized she was carrying and peeled off one of her gloves. The wolf watched her step to the edge of the path and hesitate, just for the space of a breath, with one foot held just above the mossy ground. Then she plunged into the underbrush.
She walked deliberately toward the wolf, her bare hand held out before her. The wolf edged back slowly, matching the girl a single step at a time. Never leave the pack, she thought suddenly. Thoughts of iron and poison and ash rose in her mind, and before she could help it, the wolf snapped, just once. The girl withdrew her hand and whirled around, the moon picking out strange patterns on her cloak as she hurried back to the path.
The wolf watched the girl snatch up her bundle and stride away. Just before she came to the bend in the path, she turned and stole a glance over her shoulder. The wolf had never met a girl before and was not versed in their expressions, but she would almost have said it was a look of curiosity rather than malice or fear. Then the girl was gone.
The moon-rabbit still lingered in the sky, partially obscured by the treetops. The wolf stared up at the rabbit, who seemed to be smiling slightly and gazing off in the direction the girl had chosen. The wolf was frightened, but she, too, was curious, and the rabbit’s approval seemed as good a sign as any. Warily, she followed after the girl, creeping through the brush beside the path.
It was a simple thing for her to catch up to the girl, and she slunk along behind her on silent paws. Keeping her eyes fixed on the cloak swishing at the girl’s heels, the wolf made the shadows a cloak for herself. She was so absorbed in trailing the girl and in practicing stealth that she did not notice when she was led off the main path and into a clearing. She did not notice as she crept first through the open, nor as she crept through someone’s garden, nor as she crept directly up to a house.
Then, all too fast, something snapped underfoot. The girl whipped around, her cloak swirling about her feet. The wolf froze. Their eyes met, and for just the smallest moment, the wolf thought the girl might hold out her hand again. Instead, she called out waveringly, and the door to the house was thrown open.
There was the knowledge that she ought to-had to-run, but the wolf’s paws stayed rooted to the ground as though held in thrall. There was someone running, and then the pitiless bite of cold metal; a hatchet, buried in her shoulder and then yanked free. There were spots swimming before her eyes, and she stumbled. There was the incomprehensible shouting of women and men. There was an angry snarl in a voice that could only be her sister’s. But that was impossible. Then there were teeth closing down on the scruff of her neck and dragging her to her feet.
From behind them came the sound of feet scuffling and the door of the house slamming shut. In a daze, the wolf staggered after her sister. She knew it would be a long walk back, and her neck and shoulders were matted with blood. It was already after moonset. Still, she couldn’t help but cast a last rueful glance at the house. She could almost swear someone’s face in the window was staring back.
cherith. I had never written Little Red Riding Hood fic before, so it was a bit tricky to get started on, but ityellsback was a super helpful beta who cheered me on and offered lots of good suggestions, so after a couple of false starts, I managed to finish something I was happy with. And now, to the story! You can click the link above if you'd rather read on the AO3, or here goes:
Title: the moon the only face that I see
Fandom: Little Red Riding Hood
Characters: the wolf, the girl
Word Count: 1441
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, mild gore
Summary: Wolves have stories, too. Like this one: There is the wolf with the large pointed ears and the great round eyes and the long fangs that did not make her look fearsome at all but rather too small for her own teeth.
A/N: Thanks again to ityellsback for betaing. Title from Josh Ritter's "Wolves." This was my source on wolf color vision, which admittedly is the Psychology Today Blog (cringes). Read more about the mythology of the moon rabbit here.
Wolves have stories, too. Not so different from ours. We say that they learned from us; they, that we borrowed from them. As is often the case, the truth probably lies somewhere in between.
If you wished it, if you could find wolves who would not flee from you or bare their teeth at your presence, they could tell you hundreds, perhaps thousands of stories. Stories that might not be entirely unfamiliar, although the morals of wolves can be strange mirrors. The wolf whose pelt was as white as the first snowfall, even in summer. When her pack cast her out for breaking their cover, she took refuge among the seven fox brothers. Or the wolf ensnared by a huntsman who refused her an honorable death and made her live like a common dog in the smoke of his hut. In time, she grew to love him with the devotion that only a beast can give, and, humbled, he loosed the rope and set her free. Or there is the wolf who fled through cruel briars and, pricked through by the thorns, lay down beneath the trees. And though he should have died, he only slept, bedded down in the moss and covered by the leaves.
Perhaps you already know how these stories end.
But none of these are the story you asked for. Let us hear that one.
There is the wolf with the large pointed ears and the great round eyes and the long fangs that did not make her look fearsome at all but rather too small for her own teeth. She had been the runt of her litter, and only by being so pitiable and insistent had she survived her first winter at all. She had learned to keep her attention sharp, to look longingly at things, and if they were not given, well, she was better at taking than she appeared.
And there is the night she woke with the words of her alphas echoing in her head: Never stray from the pack. Like every night, her favorite littermate, the only one with whom she would share the best bits of fat and bone, nudged her with her nose and said Come, we hunt. Like every night, she followed the pack with her paws, but her eyes wandered as they trailed the deer over their familiar hunting grounds.
Unlike every other night, she began to let her body drift in the direction of her eyes. It started with walking just a little farther from her sister. This became lingering at the fringes of the group. Then weaving the opposite way from the others whenever she passed around a tree. Soon she was so far away that she couldn’t make out the shapes of any of the wolves, just the nameless blur of the pack. Then even this was gone, before she could hesitate or think of running back. She was alone. She had strayed.
The wolf stopped in a sparse patch of trees, her breath steaming in the cold air. Now that she was on her own, she was not sure what she meant to do. She had lived her whole life within sight of at least one of her siblings, or her alphas, or her mother. Gazing up at the full moon, she searched for the shadowy outline of the rabbit said to live there. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but for the first time the rabbit seemed to be not prey taunting her from a distance but a strange kind of company. She took its presence as an encouragement and padded onward.
As the wolf pressed deeper into the forest, she could not help thinking of the stories she was told as a pup. How the darkest parts of the woods crawl with hunters, bearing axes with a cruel gleam and guns that spit ash and iron and smoke. How the cabins in the clearings belong to those who conjure fire and brew kettles of poison. The wolf shivered, and then shook off the fear. Then she stopped short, for she found herself at the edge of a long, narrow clearing that could only be the fabled path. In the very center of it, looking directly at her, stood a girl.
The wolf flinched, but she did not creep back into the shadows. She pulled herself up to her greatest height and bristled her fur slightly. Raising her enormous ears, she turned the full strength of her gaze on the girl and stared back. She did not growl, but she licked her lips so that the girl could see her long teeth.
The girl, too, stood her ground. She wore a long cloak as dark as the space between the trees, with a hood that cast her face in shadow. All the wolf could see were her hands, snug in her gloves; her feet, laced tight in leather boots; and her eyes, glittering in the moonlight. After a moment, the girl tilted her head, and the wolf saw her lips curve upward. She set down something the wolf had not realized she was carrying and peeled off one of her gloves. The wolf watched her step to the edge of the path and hesitate, just for the space of a breath, with one foot held just above the mossy ground. Then she plunged into the underbrush.
She walked deliberately toward the wolf, her bare hand held out before her. The wolf edged back slowly, matching the girl a single step at a time. Never leave the pack, she thought suddenly. Thoughts of iron and poison and ash rose in her mind, and before she could help it, the wolf snapped, just once. The girl withdrew her hand and whirled around, the moon picking out strange patterns on her cloak as she hurried back to the path.
The wolf watched the girl snatch up her bundle and stride away. Just before she came to the bend in the path, she turned and stole a glance over her shoulder. The wolf had never met a girl before and was not versed in their expressions, but she would almost have said it was a look of curiosity rather than malice or fear. Then the girl was gone.
The moon-rabbit still lingered in the sky, partially obscured by the treetops. The wolf stared up at the rabbit, who seemed to be smiling slightly and gazing off in the direction the girl had chosen. The wolf was frightened, but she, too, was curious, and the rabbit’s approval seemed as good a sign as any. Warily, she followed after the girl, creeping through the brush beside the path.
It was a simple thing for her to catch up to the girl, and she slunk along behind her on silent paws. Keeping her eyes fixed on the cloak swishing at the girl’s heels, the wolf made the shadows a cloak for herself. She was so absorbed in trailing the girl and in practicing stealth that she did not notice when she was led off the main path and into a clearing. She did not notice as she crept first through the open, nor as she crept through someone’s garden, nor as she crept directly up to a house.
Then, all too fast, something snapped underfoot. The girl whipped around, her cloak swirling about her feet. The wolf froze. Their eyes met, and for just the smallest moment, the wolf thought the girl might hold out her hand again. Instead, she called out waveringly, and the door to the house was thrown open.
There was the knowledge that she ought to-had to-run, but the wolf’s paws stayed rooted to the ground as though held in thrall. There was someone running, and then the pitiless bite of cold metal; a hatchet, buried in her shoulder and then yanked free. There were spots swimming before her eyes, and she stumbled. There was the incomprehensible shouting of women and men. There was an angry snarl in a voice that could only be her sister’s. But that was impossible. Then there were teeth closing down on the scruff of her neck and dragging her to her feet.
From behind them came the sound of feet scuffling and the door of the house slamming shut. In a daze, the wolf staggered after her sister. She knew it would be a long walk back, and her neck and shoulders were matted with blood. It was already after moonset. Still, she couldn’t help but cast a last rueful glance at the house. She could almost swear someone’s face in the window was staring back.